


Images and Words

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: by ACA chance meeting brings the hope of love to Elrond's hardened heart.Part of the "Folly of Starlight" series.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Legolas Greenleaf
Kudos: 5
Collections: Least Expected





	Images and Words

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Rating: NC 17 for unresolved sexual tension and naughty thoughts  
> References exist to the prequel, "Where the Shadows Are."  
> Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, no insinuations about real people!  
> Feedback: Always!  
> Thanks: to Faela Greenleaf for the beta read

"I was told there's a miracle for each day that I try I was told there's a new love that is born for each one that has died."

  * John Petrucci (Dream Theater), "Metropolis, Part 1 - The Miracle and the Sleeper"

* * *




Part 1:

[Beginning of Spring, The Year 2710 of the Third Age of Middle-earth, the safe haven of Imladris, known in the Common Tongue as Rivendell]

The warmth granting sunlight of afternoon streamed through the windows of Imladris, casting a thousand dappled images of newly unfurled leaves across the stone floor of Elrond's private terrace. Despite the grandeur of the day, the clearness of the sky, the scent and sound of the world reawakening into the rejoicing of a new season of growth and renewal, nothing seemed to stir the eternal icy winter in the Lord of Rivendell's heart, as he stared blankly out one airy window frame.

Ever since Celebrian had departed Imladris for the Havens and sailed across the sea, Elrond had spent his days, and nights, alone. Truth be told, however, he had been alone for most of his nearly 2500 year marriage. The union had been one of convenience, of political expediency, arranged by Galadriel in the hopes of cementing the bond between the Lords of Lorien and Rivendell. Celebrian had understandably been taken with Elrond, at least in the beginning, and for his part, Elrond was genuinely fond of Galadriel's only child. But it had never blossomed into anything resembling the passion of a lifetime. Elrond had possessed, and lost, that priceless treasure in the Second Age, and did not expect he would ever be so graced again.

Even the birth of three children could not fan the flames of admiration and respect into true love. Celebrian had spent increasing amounts of time visiting her parents after her children reached maturity, sometimes taking Arwen with her. It was only by the slightest chance of luck, and perhaps the Valar's protection, that Arwen had chosen to remain in Rivendell on the fateful final trip Celebrian had taken toward Lorien. It had been exactly two hundred years since his wife had decided the memory of her torment in orc hands was too nightmarish to bear, and had forsaken her family and her home for the promise of peace in Aman in the west. Now, their sons hunted orcs with an obsession which could not be considered healthy, and Arwen spent increasing amounts of time with her grandparents in the silvery sanctuary of Lorien.

Yes, Elrond was utterly alone, now in reality, to match the solitude he'd felt in his soul for most of the Third Age. Years passed in the outside world nearly unnoticed, except for the reports brought by messengers of neighboring peoples seeking advice, and the rare visit by an old friend, most notably Gandalf the Grey.

The line of Isildur continued on in the North, under his watchful eye and occasional direct aid. As a constant reminder of the oath he'd sworn, those painfully long centuries ago, he'd kept the shattered shards of Narsil in a shrine underneath his private quarters, where he sometimes believed he also stored the wrenched and twisted ruins of his heart. More than once he'd contemplated leaving Middle-earth for the West, but his promise to Gil-galad and the very real possibility of the resurfacing of the One Ring bound him to his lonely vigil. Thus the seasons passed essentially unnoticed, each cycle of greening and goldening of the leaves a mere blur in his mind.

Motion beyond the trees suddenly caught his eye, along with a glimmer of sunlight-reflected gold. Staring into the distance with a scowl of concentration, he realized what had caught his attention was a mane of blond hair attached to the head of an unfamiliar elf dressed in Silvan garb. Before his mind could form the obvious questions, he recognized the darker figures leading the stranger, and three more unknown fair haired elves, as his long missed sons.

Feeling some comfort at the safe return of his twin sons, Elrond turned from the window and lighted down the stairs to meet the approaching party at the bridge. The Lord stood at the near side, his hands loosely clasped in front of his coppery robes, patiently watching as the spring-stepped elves hurried to his side of the structure. He surveyed the four strangers, and found that none appeared even slightly familiar to his eye. A warm smile of pride and relief softened the habitual scowl of his face as his sons finally crossed to his side of the bridge, the wonder-eyed strangers lingering in their steps behind as they obviously tried to drink in the entirety of the beauty of Rivendell. "How goes the hunt, my sons?" Elrond earnestly inquired.

"More successful than most," Elladan cheerfully grinned, clasping his father's forearms in a warrior's greeting.

Nodding in appreciative understanding, Elrond acknowledged the other twin, who had sidled up next to his brother. "So, Elohir, I see you have brought something more fair than orc hides home with you this time." His storm colored gaze quickly darted over the four golden-haired strangers, finding his breath stolen from his chest as his eyes locked onto the curiosity laden features of the fairest of their company. There was Eldar blood coursing through those veins, of that Elrond was most certain. But it wasn't the obvious noble heritage which mesmerized the usually unflappable Lord of Rivendell so. No, it was the utter exquisiteness of the flawless features, and the tempting taste of youthful bravado mixed with the refreshing purity of unjaded inexperience so apparent in those sparkling, wonder-filled eyes.

"We came upon them on the Old Forest Road, at the western edge of Mirkwood," Elrohir smugly explained, mercifully oblivious to his father's incipient infatuation. "They needed our extra hands in dealing with some _trouble_.

"We were _dealing_ with the orcs well enough without your aid," Elrond's object of admiration defensively replied.

Elrohir grinned mischievously, as he glanced back at the source of that protest, clearly enjoying the verbal jabs. "I must admit, his aim _is_ true, for a princeling."

<<A princeling, indeed.>> With an arched eyebrow, Elrond forced himself to end his unseemly study of the fiery newcomer. "Does this _princeling_ have a name?"

The golden haired vision of beauty stepped forward and bowed slightly to Elrond. "Legolas of Mirkwood, my Lord."

The arched eyebrow rose even further skyward. "A prince of Mirkwood. That is Thranduil's realm."

"Yes, he is my father."

Elrond forced his features into less obvious interest. "I did not realize his sons were so proficient with the bow." <<Or so fair of face.>>

"There is much you would not know of my family." Legolas surreptitiously glanced sideways at each twin in turn, then sheepishly met Elrond's intense stare. "My father does not speak kindly of Rivendell."

"Indeed." Elrond was far from surprised. Too much blood had been shed in the Last Alliance for Thranduil's heart to not have bitterness, even if it was misplaced. "Or its Lord, I would wager."

"You do know my father well," Legolas uneasily answered. "He has not said much, only that my grandfather, and many of our people, died fighting under the flawed guidance of Rivendell."

The ancient elf's other eyebrow arched at that interesting tidbit of revisionist history. "So he says. Perhaps you and I will speak of the truth of the battle, if it interests you."

The eagerness of the spring breeze flooded through Legolas' face. "It does. All things do."

Smiling slightly, Elrond nodded in pleasant surprise. <<The house of Oropher is much enriched by this one. It must be his mother's blood.>> "Then welcome to Rivendell, Legolas, son of Thranduil. All that we have is yours to enjoy, for so long as you desire our company. For the moment, my sons will see to your comfort, and that of your friends." He caught the prince's gaze, a curious mixture of the ethereal gray of the morning fog and the otherworldly sapphire of Vilya, and felt his heart stir for the first time in far too long. Alarmed by his inexplicable reaction, Elrond turned away and started back toward his private quarters, but not before he thought he detected a hint of the rosy bloom of dawn on the prince's cheeks as Legolas stuttered his words of thanks.

<<Has the world finally gone mad? Have I?>> Elrond's heart felt like the wings of a newly chrysalised butterfly taking its first tentative flaps of freedom after confinement in a suffocating cocoon. It was folly, madness. <<It will pass. It will pass. It _must_ pass.>>

Part 2:

Elrond consciously avoided spending more than a polite few moments with the band from Mirkwood for the rest of the day, already alarmed at the number of times the fair visage of the Prince of that realm entered his conscious thoughts. He most certainly did not want to encourage his subconscious' self-indulgent studies of Legolas' considerable charms. Noting that in his position as host he would be sorely missed at the evening meal, and more willing to risk being in his nascent obsession's company that dare arousing suspicion from his sons for uncharacteristic behavior, Elrond quietly sat at the head of the table, as distant from Legolas as he could possibly arrange. He soon found that mere lack of physical proximity did nothing to wane the Prince of Mirkwood's inexplicable hold on his psyche and senses. If anything, the distance caused the already embarrassing adolescent twinges in his heart and body to ripen into full fledged longing.

Only a stone could be immune from the radiant light in Legolas' eyes, the lyrical laughter, the excitement dripping like the freshness of the dew during his wonder-filled recounting of all he had seen that afternoon in Rivendell. Each new variety of flower was a cause for celebration, each unfamiliar birdsong a treasure to be shared and cherished. Elrond had lived in Rivendell for far too long to have any sense of wonder left about it. He knew every tree, each rock, the individual tiles in the Council Hall. But seeing it through Legolas' eyes somehow made it a magical place, once more. Yes, only the walls of Mordor themselves could possibly repel the blinding luminosity of that soul. Despite the endless passing of years, the centuries of loneliness, Elrond rediscovered that not all of what he once believed of the power of the heart had been incinerated on the slopes of Mount Doom. It was like stirring from a long, starless night and awakening into the brilliant sunshine of Midsummer's Day. It was glorious.

It was a delusion. Elrond stood up from the table during a pause in Legolas' latest tale of discovery and excused himself. "I am sure you will not miss the presence of an old, jaded soul," he lamely joked, chancing one last snatched glance at the achingly beauteous face. Was that insult now reflected in the slightly pouted lips, or disappointment? Part of him sincerely hoped it was the former, and not the latter. He could deal with his own pain, but he would _not_ be the cause of it in another -- never again.

* * *

Petal-soft flesh sucked the very breath from his mouth, replacing it with the warmed exhale of another. He knew the taste, yet it was at the same time completely novel and delicious beyond compare. He sucked purposefully on the slender lower lip, running the tip of his tongue along the length before momentarily releasing his oral prisoner. Claiming the entirety of that warm and wanton mouth, he melted into the all encompassing web of sensual sensations with a heartfelt sigh of longing and appreciation.

For although his eyes were tightly shut, he trembled in anticipation of the sight he knew to be awaiting him. The lithe, marble pale body laying beneath him fit so perfectly within his enveloping arms, the warm smoothness of the flawless elven skin, softer than the sheets enveloping them, soothed and tormented him at the very same time. Slender hips shifted underneath him while agile legs wrapped around his waist, graceful ankles locking them together. A gasp of erotic awareness hissed from his lips as he felt the head of his aching hardness insistently pressed against a beckoning doorway to pleasures long unseen and barely remembered.

Instinct and longing moved his body forward before his mind could even hope to react. Moaning with his flesh as well as his voice, he shuddered in boundless delight at the delectable sensation of passing beyond the tight muscular sentinel. It was the moment he always loved best, when in the other's position, dancing on the knife edge of ecstasy and agony. No, it was both, and neither. It just _was_. It defined the very essence of trust and intimacy, a moment outside of time, and with held breath he lingered there as long as he possibly could.

Feeling impatient hips thrust up toward him, he slid ever so slowly along the welcoming hall of delights, savoring the sweet hint of friction and cocooning tightness. It was only once he'd completely sheathed himself into that taste of the Blessed Realm that he opened his eyes.

The beauty he'd imagined he'd find paled in comparison to reality. The Valar themselves must have carefully crafted this moment for him, the magnificence of the reality beyond the powers of Middle-earth to create. He found himself utterly transfixed by the passion-darkened glimmer in those miraculously expressive eyes, their hue turned to the violet of the early dawn by the subtle illumination of the fading candlelight.

"Sing to me," his lover hushedly whispered, the timbre breathless and shimmering, reminding him of the urgent call of an ethereal dove.

How could he refuse so sweet a request? Far more a much delighted offer than a chore, he lowered his lips to the desire-blushed skin of the other's neck, trailing his mouth softly over the pulsing artery. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel...," he softly sang, rocking their bodies together in an agonizingly slow cadence with the verse.

"...silivren penna mriel...." He brushed his mouth up along the maddening boundary where silken skin met the velvety golden mane of hair. "...o menel aglar elenath! Na-chaered palan-driel...." His lips trailed across the sweat-dappled crest of his lover's forehead and there remained. "...o galadhremmin ennorath, Fanuilos, le linnathon...."

The fingers of one hand eagerly brushed forward through the passion-mussed locks, lingering at the softly woven texture of a delicate braid. "...nef aear, si nef aearon!...." He wrapped his fingers around the enticing rope of hair and finally lost himself to the joyous delirium of ecstasy. "...A Elbereth Gilthoniel!... Elbereth... Ai!... Ai!... Legolas...."

* * *

Elrond shuddered into consciousness, his body sheened with sweat, his flesh sticky and fragrant with his unconscious release. Repulsed and energized at the vividness of his dreams, he disentangled himself from his soiled sheets and padded across the cool stone floor. Still in that fuzzy twilight between reality and dream, he splashed cold water on his face from his wash basin and attempted to get a rational hold of his hopeless fantasies. He stared at his flushed face in the mirror, not sure he even recognized the reflection he found there. <<What madness has taken hold of me?>>

Desperate, disgusted, and still thrumming with the vividness of his dreams coursing through his flesh, Elrond braced his hands on the window sill and stared up at the sky. He recognized the subtle silvering of dawn in the east, and regretted that it had already faded all but the brightest stars from view, the twinkling beacons of light disappearing one by one just as his memories of his dream. "Elbereth Gilthoniel," he whispered to himself. "Lady of the Stars, why do you torment me with dreams of what cannot be? Have I not suffered enough?"

Part 3:

Like a thief in his own house, Elrond stealthily crept from his bedchamber, his feet not making a sound on the dawn chilled stone floor. With a held breath he trained his ears on the unmistakable sounds of a nearby presence, his eyes recognizing the delicate illumination of a single candle flickering across the floor of the small library beyond.

The subtle, crisp, sliding sound of parchment being turned wafted through the air, raising a slight smile to the corners of his mouth. <<Ah, someone else has abandoned dreams for the night.>> Hoping an innocent conversation with one of his familiar neighbors might dislodge the tormenting replay of imagined pleasures from his mind's vision, Elrond comfortably poked his head through the doorway, then froze.

There _he_ was, sitting in the Lord of Rivendell's favorite seat, one lanky naked leg carelessly thrown over an arm of the chair, utterly absorbed in his hungry-eyed study of a weighty volume. The mithril hued tunic was carelessly unbuttoned to the waist, its slit-sided hem barely covering the prince's most private areas. A flash of bare thigh could easily be spied resting just above the arm of the chair. How could Elrond hope to find a moment's rest in that seat ever again?

Wrenching his gaze from that forbidden fruit, Elrond drank in the smooth alabaster skin of the prince's chest peeking through the deep V-shaped opening in the cloth curtain of silver. Proficiency with the bow had clearly made him strong and well sinewed, yet he remained as slender and lean as a willowy birch, and infinitely more flexible. Such power so well hidden beneath his ordinary green forest garb -- it was a trap, a trap set not only for his enemies, but intentionally or not, for all those who would take the time to admire his form.

Elrond blinked, the spell broken by the sudden turning of a page. As Legolas continued his intent devourment of the ink etched words, Elrond found himself rapt in a study of the other's face. Such concentration, such wonder, such innate inquisitiveness painted across that perfect pale palette. The single candle sputtered for a moment, its light dimming, then flaring bright again. Before he could catch himself, Elrond sighed too loudly at the delicate interplay of deep coppery shadow and sun golden light across the keenly sculpted features.

Clearly startled, Legolas quickly rocketed out of the chair, a fleeting view of much more than thigh visible before the fabric settled into its proper place. "Lord Elrond... I did not mean to invade your privacy, or disturb your dreams," he guiltily babbled.

Both disappointed and thankful that the tableau had been disrupted, Elrond slowly completed his step into the room. "My dreams were already disturbed." <<Far more than you know.>> It tortured him beyond words to be thrust so immediately from his erotic imaginings to experiencing Legolas' real life presence so close to his bed chamber. His mind's eye could not hope to recreate the delicate detail in the beauty of the prince's face, his form, his graceful yet powerful hands lovingly cradling the book he still claimed close to his chest.... With a nervous clearing of his throat, Elrond uttered a silent prayer of thanks that his own garb was much looser, and longer. "I see you are enjoying one of my books."

Apparently relieved that his intrusion was accepted without ire, Legolas nodded his enthusiastic agreement. He closed the book and gently brushed one hand over the gold embossed leather cover. "I have spent far more hours in my father's house studying with my bow than with books."

"To that you may now owe your life," Elrond reminded them both.

"Yes, but books are still worth the time, are they not?"

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Elrond nodded his approval of that logic. "Indeed they are."

The prince gazed wide-eyed at the row after row of books lining one wall of the small sitting room. "You have a far greater collection than my father. I fear he is more concerned with collecting gold and jewels than learning."

"So I have heard," Elrond sadly noted. <<What a fool Thranduil is, if he keeps searching for hoards of dwarvish gold, while his greatest treasure, his precious golden gem of a son, remains in the dark of the ways of the greater world.>> He glanced at the cover of the leather-bound book preciously cradled so protectively, so lovingly in Legolas' sensual fingers, and found himself strangely jealous of that inanimate object. "'The Tale of the Silmarils.' A sad and complicated part of our history. Are you enjoying it?"

"Yes, greatly. I have heard pieces of the story before, sung by my father, but I have never heard the entire tale."

Pursing his lips, Elrond slowly nodded once more. "Then it is yours to keep."

"I... I cannot!" Legolas protested, his lips parted widely in surprise. He grasped the book in both hands and thrust it forward toward to its rightful owner.

Feigning insult to his honor, Elrond gruffly admonished "You would reject my gift?"

"No -- that is not what I meant. This is far too valuable...."

Elrond interrupted Legolas' attempt at an explanation by reaching out with a hand of his own and gently pushing the book back. As he retracted his hand, he accidentally brushed against those enticing fingers, the contact more electric than the tingling crackle of summer lightning. "I have another copy," he barely managed to say. Clearing his throat, he regained his composure. "Is it not far better that this book bring someone pleasure than for it to gather dust on my shelves?"

"Yes, of course." A beaming smile of understanding turned Legolas' face to a rival of the midday sun. "Thank you. How can I repay your kindness?"

Elrond flashes a slight, bittersweet smile of his own in return. "Your enjoyment is payment enough." He lingered in the prince's grateful expression, his own appearance softening into a true smile of enjoyed defeat. After all, what was the harm in admiring Legolas' considerable charms? Perhaps Elbereth had not meant to cruelly torment him -- perhaps the shining star of Mirkwood's hope was brought here for a time to shed some much needed light into the gloom-filled corners of his own life. And just like the stars, he would drink of their light, enjoy their beauty, though they be far beyond his reach.

* * *

Legolas sprinted down the stairs from the scene of the crime, clutching his new gift to his chest. He could still feel the warmth of Elrond's hand on his, the guiltily enjoyed gentle rasp of fingers slid away from his. It was such a simple thing, yet so utterly profound. He raised a hand to his cheek and silently cursed the heat he found. <<He knows, he's no fool. I was blushing like a elf maiden after her first kiss! Ai! How can I face him now?>>

He collapsed down onto a stone bench and gazed out over the cascading falls of the Bruinen. <<Why did I ever agree to come here? I should have heeded my father's warnings of Rivendell. No good will come of this, no good at all.>> He glanced back over his shoulder and up at Elrond's chambers, his heart leaping as he saw a stilled, regal figure staring out over the landscape now illuminated by the first ray of sunlight. A cloud crossed Legolas' heart at the expression he noted on that noble face. <<He is scowling again. I hope it is not my fault.>>

As shocked as he had been at Elrond's mere presence in the sitting room, he had been even more stunned at the softness of the Lord of Rivendell's striking features. Without the trappings of title, minus the intricately crafted diadem and richly appointed robes, Elrond seemed surprisingly real for the first time. Not only real, but desirable, and perhaps, as folly as it seemed, even attainable.

<<No, not even in your dreams.>> Oh, but what dreams those might be. <<And what manner of the dreams had _he_ enjoyed?>> Legolas had thought he detected a hint of the unmistakable musky scent of sex in the air. Wishful thinking on his part, or had he truly interrupted dreams of the sweetest variety? <<Was I in those dreams? Be I so bold to even think it?>> The stirring of his flesh beneath his tunic both thrilled and horrified him. Legolas had played at love many times over his two centuries, taking his enjoyment as he saw fit with the fair of face of both genders of his kind. It was never anything more than the fire of the moment, the need for physical contact and the curiosity driven exploration of sensations he had first discovered alone in his own bed. This seemed far different, however, in a way he could not yet discern. It troubled him as deeply as it exhilarated him. <<Mind your actions -- Lord Elrond is not one to be toyed with!>> And yet, this was not toying, far from it. It seemed as natural as breathing, yet at the same time as foreign as the wondrous home in which he was now a guest.

<<I cannot stay. He will see my heart, and he will think me a fool! Yet, how can I tear myself away?>> Legolas watched the sunlit figure above him turn and walk away out of view, and felt a pang of disappointment and loss stab at his heart. <<Just a few days, that is all. I'll stay just a few days. What is the harm in that?>> Lowering his gaze to the book which now lay his lap, he tenderly brushed the fingers of one hand across the well-worn leather cover. <<No harm at all.>>

Part 4:

Elrond neither sought nor avoided Legolas' company the rest of that brilliant, sun-warmed day, content to accept the small snippets of joy the surreptitious sight of prince's face and wafting echo of that lyrical laughter granted him. Spring had returned to Imladris, and possibly to its Lord's long-hibernating heart. Throughout the day he had numerous times caught Legolas glancing his way, the look on that expressive face seeming to reflect shades of meaning far too intermingled to clearly discern. <<Is he still troubled about my gift? Was I presumptuous to insist that he take it?>> Frustrating cycles of questions orbited in Elrond's brain for most of the day, despite his original intention to allow the events of the coming hours to unfold as they would without expectation or fear.

Why, then, did Legolas' every piercing gaze raised flames of the former in his heart and lumps of the latter in his throat?

* * *

The cozy, familiar cover of night fell over the Valley of the Bruinen, its residents and guests each celebrating the return of the stars in their own personal way. Some wandered in the nearby wood, singing soft songs to Elbereth, others lay stretched out on the small flower-peppered patches of grass at the trees' edge. Ever drawn to the sky and forest, both of which sang through their blood almost as strongly as the haunting melody of the great unseen ocean in the west, the elves temporarily abandoned the carefully crafted stone halls of Elrond's sanctuary until their dreams beckoned them to a softer bed than moss and grass.

The Lord of Imladris lazily meandered through his darkened halls, relishing the solitude. Candlelight waited for later hours -- for now, Ithil's heavenly half-full gaze provided more than ample light for perceptive elven eyes to safely guide him through the familiar passages and steps. With no other light to compete with that of nature, the stars seemed to call out to their long-wandering children, comforting them, soothing their pains.

His own pains far too deep-rooted and tightly entangled within his heart for even the healing power of starlight to appease, Elrond strolled out into the vacant council chamber. The mithril-hued illumination played over the long-empty chairs, reflecting ghostly images in his mind. He paused before his own high backed seat, daring a loss-driven glance at the empty chair beside it.

<<"When have you ever disappointed me, Nin-iaun, except when you spend far too much time absent from my bed?">> The voice echoed in his head, the sound weak and thin from the passing of millennia. He closed his eyes, forcing an image of his long-dead lover into his mind. That, too, seemed noticeably diffused by the insistent marching of years. Would there come a time when he could no longer see Gil-galad's face in his mind? Would the voice of memory be finally silenced? That possibility positively horrified Elrond.

Squeezing his eyes more tightly closed, he reached out a hand and ran it over the well-worn arm of a chair. It was not the very same chair which had stood here that fateful day, the day his heart first began to sense the doom which would befall it. No, it was a faithful reproduction, lovingly crafted at his command. The passage of time would rob him of a great many things -- the least he could do was attempt to keep _some_ things as they were, back when his heart sang with the birds. He had sworn several oaths in that far distant time, and he had remained true to them all, even unto this day.

Save, perhaps, one. <<"I will do as you ask, though I shall see only you in my dreams.">> For the first time in over twenty centuries that was no longer the truth. Guilt flooded through the elf lord, sweeping him away in an undertow of shame and self-reproach. Even during the long years of his marriage he had kept true to his vows to Gil-galad. He had kept Vilya safe, had vigilantly watched over the bloodline of Elendil and Isildur, and had never, ever enjoyed the taste of another in his dreams.

Until now.

Could he truly be held to such a promise he had made so very long ago? Would Gil-galad have wished him to be so utterly alone for so long? A knowing glimmer of a smile tugged at one side of his mouth. <<Certainly not!>> The King of the Noldor had cherished him more than Vilya itself, even to the very moment of his death at Mount Doom, of that Elrond had absolutely no doubt. He might yet have another chance to taste his sweet lord's lips, in a future time, in a distant land far beyond the sea. For now, he dwelt in Middle-earth, and his love would not deny him the pleasures of this realm, no, not a one.

The soft sound of a familiar lilting voice raised upon the stillness of the darkness roused Elrond from his meditations. His heart soared upon the very wings of the night at both the recognition of the singer, and the song, itself. Both had haunted his dreams, although the song had passed from _his_ lips in his fantasy. Somehow it sounded completely different, altogether ethereal and sensual to the point of reawakening the endless aching in his flesh, when passed through the much desired lips of the Prince of Mirkwood.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
silivren penna mriel  
o menel aglar elenath!  
Na-chaered palan-driel  
o galadhremmin ennorath,  
Fanuilos, le linnathon  
nef aear, si nef aearon!"

Training his eyes in the direction of the sound, there he spied the apparition of unearthly beauty standing at the edge of the stone wall, winging his song to the heavens above with upturned face. The graceful arc of his neck, the silky cascade of sunlight hued hair tumbling freely down his back like a waterfall of pure gold. It was in this very moment that Elrond, the ancient Lord of Rivendell, lost his heart for only the second time in his lengthy years in Middle-earth. He was loathe to admit it to anyone, especially himself, for long afterward, but when he later thought back upon this moment, he remembered his very breath being stolen from his chest, his heart truly standing still in time. In years to come, he would regard it with rejoicing as the moment he truly returned from the fiery darkness of Orodruin. At the moment, itself, however, he questioned his very sanity with an unshakable sense of doom.

Part 5:

The song suddenly ended, the spell was broken, and Elrond shook the cobwebs of sensuous dreams from his head. His feet moved on their own, toward the now silent golden-hued prince. From somewhere deep inside himself his voice awoke autonomously, his brain still fogged by the sheer beauty of the night and one particular of its citizens. "Why the fascination, Legolas? Do they not have stars in Mirkwood?"

Legolas slowly lowered his gaze from the heavens to a sight he found almost as pleasing. Nay, even more so. A smile easily found his lips. "Yes, of course. They just seem so much... brighter in Rivendell."

With pursed lips, Elrond slowly strolled a few steps closer to the prince, his hands held behind the back of his silently flowing copper colored robe with clasped fingers. He stared up at the night sky and seriously pondered Legolas' observation. "I have always thought they appeared their brightest over the sea."

Awestruck at the nonchalance of that comment, Legolas took a step backward, his lips caught in a silent o for a moment. "It is true -- you have seen the sea?"

Elrond tried to contain his amusement at the other's obvious fascination with his history. "Yes, many times. Until coming to Rivendell, I always lived within a few days' march of it." He counted the seconds until the obvious question was asked. He got only as far as three.

"Does it not call to you?"

"Sometimes," Elrond honestly admitted.

Legolas glanced down at the ground, then up at the stars. After a pause, a reverent whisper sang through his lips. "They say our kind cannot resist it."

"That is true, son of Thranduil. The great song of the waters is in _your_ blood, as well, although you do not yet hear its melody. Learn well that there are many things in this world which are difficult to resist. But with age, and patience, you learn how to refuse their temptation -- or greatly delay your succumbing." Elrond silently wondered if that comment was for Legolas' benefit or his own.

"Is that why Rivendell is so far from the sea? So you will not be tempted to leave?"

Was it? It had been centuries since he'd seen the sea, and Elrond was uncertain what exactly his reaction to its sight, its scent, its sound, would be after so long a time. "Perhaps. I will travel over the sea -- someday. But I still have responsibilities in Middle-earth. There is much of beauty which still remains to be enjoyed. There are greater temptations here for me, it seems."

Legolas abruptly turned away in the moonlight, but not before Elrond caught a hint of color mottle the flawless pale skin. <<Is that a blush I see upon his cheek? Why does he turn away from me?>> Questions assaulted his mind like orcs on the plain of Mordor. Did Legolas read more into the comment than was intended, or had Elrond truly intended much more than he wished he'd had?

"Tell me of it -- the sea." There was an obvious tremble in that hushed request, a hesitance, as if the very description of the ocean would awaken the longing in Legolas' blood.

Wasn't there already a hint of longing in that lyrical voice? Was it the longing for knowledge, or something else.... That possibility could not be pondered, not in such close proximity, under the illusion of moonlight. It would be the very heart of folly. "It spreads out before you," Elrond softly began, "an endless field of deep blues and dappled greys, the exact color changing with its mood, its depths..." <<...like your eyes.>> Caught off guard by his mind's unexpected commentary, Elrond nervously cleared his throat, grateful the prince' back was still turned to him. "The waves undulate across the surface, slightly at first, then gather speed like a herd of galloping horses, and roll furiously toward the shore, their crests glimmering white as the pure moonlight..." <<...upon your perfect skin.>>

Indeed, the pale silvery illumination joyously kissed Legolas' alabaster flesh, turning such lesser portions as the delicate tips of his ears and the top of a bow-strengthened wrist, peeking from the edge of its leather gauntlet, into the most desirable of morsels. Fearing a betraying tremble would soon invade his own voice, Elrond lowered his words to barely a whisper. "They crash into shore, lapping at the pale golden sand, the sunlight dancing off each individual grain, turning it to a mine of precious amber jewels... <<just as the sunlight kissed your hair this afternoon.>> Unconsciously, Elrond reached out a hand toward the alluring moon-dappled mane before him. He paused several inches away, hovered on the edge of indulgence and denial, then reached forward again. Before he could complete the contact, the golden field spun out of reach. He quickly retracted his hand before Legolas faced him, praying that his attempt at a stolen caress would go unnoticed.

As it had been several times before, the expression on Legolas' face was frustratingly inscrutable. How could such innocence seem the very model of duplicity and trickery? Whatever chance he had to discern the truth behind those changeable eyes faded like the shadows into the night as Legolas stared up at the stars, once more.

"Do you think there are stars in the West?"

A bittersweet half smile tugged at the corners of the Lord of Rivendell's mouth. "I do not know. Elbereth made them for us here in Middle-earth, to greet us upon the awakening of our race. That is who we are -- the Eldar, the children of the stars." Elrond stared up at the glimmering crystals of light embedded in the velvety blackness of the sky and seriously pondered the question further. "Perhaps, when we grow up and leave the cradle for the last time, we will no longer need the stars."

Legolas glanced down briefly, then at Elrond, a lingering pain obvious in his eyes. "That is a sad thought."

<<Features so exquisite should never be veiled in sorrow.>> With a loud sigh, Elrond forced what he hoped was a comforting smile to his lips. "The world changes, Legolas. Even we change, in our own way. When we lose one source of beauty, of joy, we often find another to take its place." He heard the words coming from his mouth and found he could not stop himself. He wondered if Legolas had any inkling of what he truly spoke. If he had, it wasn't mirrored in his words or expression. Or... was it?

"Elrohir told me about his mother...." Legolas paused cautiously, then proceeded gently with what was obviously a delicate subject. "How she was tormented by the orcs and sailed across the sea. He said she could not bear the pain of her wound, despite your great powers of healing."

The cold scowl returned to the Lord of Rivendell's face, his tone becoming hardened, as well. "She no longer found anything of beauty in Middle-earth -- that was the true source of her pain." Unable to stand the empathetic pain in those expressive eyes, Elrond stiffly turned away, staring instead at the artistic wonder that was his home. Home -- that was a lie. It was a place to dwell, to hide from the world, and wallow in his treasure trove of faded memories. It hadn't truly felt like home since the last time battle-hardened arms had encircled him in his bed.

Legolas was beside himself with incredulity, and did not shirk from sharing it. "Nothing of beauty? Not the trees, nor the stars, nor Rivendell itself? Was there nothing she loved enough to give her reason to stay?"

"Nothing." Sighing loudly, Elrond dropped his gaze to the stone floor beneath his feet. "I fear that is the source of my sons' single-minded rage. They hate the orcs, as well they should, but part of them also resents their mother for leaving. I suppose they resent me, as well, for not convincing her to remain. It has been two hundred years, yet it appears their own sense of loss does not diminish." <<Should I blame them? Has mine diminished in ten times that amount?>>

"Two hundred years -- I did not know it had been that long." Legolas glanced away, his mind making an ironic connection. "That is as long as I have been alive. I cannot imagine holding on to pain for so long."

Elrond swallowed hard, tightly shutting his eyes at the innocence of that remark. It all made sense now, and yet it was not a welcome epiphany. His sons had been right to call Legolas a "princeling." He was as a mere baby to them, in terms of his time in Middle-earth. << And so what is he to me, then? A child! A child! Ai, Elbereth save me! I am bewitched by a mere child! >>

Bewitched, enthralled, hopelessly doomed. He had been there once before, when he, and the world, were both much younger. How this infatuation would end he had no concept. How _could_ it end, other than badly? Perhaps it was better for them both if it never truly began. "Pain can endure even unto the end of Middle-earth, itself," he whispered. "I pray you never experience such despair."

Part 6:

<<"I pray you never experience such despair.">> The words rang in Legolas' ears, the melancholy in them, the bitterness, breaking his heart. From what Elrond's sons had _not_ said, when discussing their mother's fate, he had gotten the impression that there was no more than the most tenuous of marital bonds between the twins' parents. But if that be the case, what was the seemingly chasmic source of Elrond's palpable pain? He suddenly realized he truly knew so little about the Lord of Imladris, other than the snippets of legend he'd heard, and, of course, the vituperative comments of his father.

Who _was_ Elrond Half-Elven? This was no legend standing before him, nor the heartless schemer his father would have led him to believe. Here was a puzzle to solve, a riddle to discern, a lock to open, and, Legolas believed, a jewel to be treasured. Such loneliness dripped from Elrond's every word, and his eyes bore the unmistakable stain of the obvious burden he carried within him. <<But what _is_ that burden?>>

Determined to bring back the glimmer of light he'd spied in those noble features before dawn, Legolas circled around Elrond and caught his attention. "You seem to know more about the stars than anyone. Tell me their names."

Elrond appeared amused, one graceful eyebrow arching upward. "The people of Mirkwood do not know the stories placed among in the stars?"

<<Ai! He thinks me an idiot!>> "Some," Legolas defensively countered. "I'm sure my father told them to me, when I was a small child. But... he never told me the names of _all_ of them."

"Nor will I," Elrond amusedly countered. "There are not enough hours in the night to do so." A smile muted his countenance, reminding Legolas more of the generous man who'd gifted the interloper in his library that early morn. "But, if you insist, I will refresh your memory, a little." With a grand sigh, he glanced up at the sky and pointed an outstretched arm toward the west, to a small cluster of blue-white stars. "There, just above the trees, you surely recognize Remmirath, the Netted Stars."

Legolas nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, of course! My elder brother always taunted me because he swore he could see thirteen stars to my twelve!"

"They say the race of man can only see six."

"Six? By Elbereth, they are blinder than I thought possible!" Shaking his head, Legolas pondered the weakness of men. "No wonder they stumble around in the dark! No wonder they do not appreciate the night as we do!" He peered at the v-shaped grouping of stars just above Remmirath, wracking his brain for a name he could not precisely snatch from memory. "That one -- the red star nearest them...."

"Borgil. And the gold-toned light above him is Malthenel. They say he is much beloved by the dwarves."

"And my father," Legolas joked. Feeling the sudden need to impress the elder elf with _some_ semblance of celestial literacy, Legolas thrust an insistent arm skyward, the extended fingers gesturing low in the southwest below Borgil. "There -- Menelvagor, the swordsman of the heavens!" He flashed a cheeky smile at Elrond. "That was always my favorite pattern of stars as a child. Although, I always pictured him as an elf bowsman. See -- there, that arc of stars is his bow." His expression dimmed to one of far less confidence, waiting for Elrond's appraisal of his interpretation of Elbereth's handiwork.

Elrond peered intently at the brilliant diamonds of light which traced the constellation, his lips pursed as he pondered. "I, too, have always seen a bow in his hands." The expression on his face turned mischievous, competitive. "There -- below his belt. Name for me _that_ one, if you can!"

Legolas answered with the confidence of someone many times his age. "Every child knows Helluin. It is the brightest light in the darkness, save for Earendil and Alcarinque!"

"And Ithil, itself," Elrond teased, gesturing up at the moon.

"That does not count! You are, indeed, a trickster, Elrond!" Legolas regretted that comment even while it flew from his lips. Noting the sudden expression of concerned confusion on the other's face, he decided honesty must rule the field. "It is something my father says of you. I... _I_ do not truly believe it." Elrond's look began to sadden, once more, and Legolas quickly sprang into action. He would not allow this delightful game to bring anything but a smile to those desirable lips. "There -- nearly overhead. Edegil. It can be used to find one's way home."

A hint of a smile twitched at the corners of Elrond's face. "Yes. The seven starred sickle of the Valar." He paused, peering farther northward. Wilwarin has passed behind the falls. We shall not see her for several hours."

"Wilwarin?"

"Gwilwileth -- the butterfly. You do not know of her?"

Legolas pondered for a moment. "Yes, I do. I prefer real butterflies, though."

A devilish glimmer gleamed in the elder elf's twilight-hued eyes. "Do you wish to know a secret?" After Legolas eagerly nodded, Elrond continued his thought in a whisper. "So do I."

They lingered in a comfortable smiling gaze for a moment, then Elrond gestured skyward again. "What is that in the east, just above the horizon?"

Legolas stared in the general direction, peered intently at the unfamiliar tangle of stars, then finally shook his head in defeat. "I... I do not know anything in that region of the sky," he guiltily admitted, feeling suddenly younger than his true age.

Elrond more insistent gestured to the eastern sky. "There -- just sailing into the sky above the trees. Meduicair, the Last Ship."

"I am sorry, I cannot see it."

"Let me help you." Elrond carefully sidled up behind Legolas, his right arm raised above Legolas' shoulder, just beside the young elf's face, and pointed skyward. "Sight along my arm. There, the brightest star marks the bow, and there is the deck and the bottom of the ship and the stern. And those stars mark the sails. Do you see it now?"

Legolas was far too intoxicated by the proximity of Elrond's flesh. If he was honest and said yes, he could see the pattern, the contact would be broken, and with it, the spell which held him deliciously within its grasp. "No, I still cannot," he lied in a raspy voice.

"Here, let me try again."

Legolas felt the body behind his move closer, into truer contact. He closed his eyes and gasped nearly silently, savoring the soft shifting of the other's robes against his back, the pressure of the arm rested upon his shoulder. He resisted leaning backward, completing the contact and turning it into an embrace, only with the greatest of effort. He could not, however, resist tilting his head slightly to the right, brushing his cheek softly against the silky fabric of the elegant robe sleeve. "I... I think I see it now," he finally answered, knowing it would not be long before Elrond understood he was only feigning ignorance.

"Good," a satisfied voice uttered.

<<Do not move, please, I beg of you.>> As if his prayer had been answered, the arm remained firmly pointed toward the stars above, and Legolas' held his breath once more.

"Over the night, it will sail toward the west, finally setting beyond our view, just as we will all pass into the west, someday," Elrond hushedly explained, a piquant taste of sadness in his voice.

Legolas heard nothing but the rush of blood in his ears, the loud beating of his own heart, felt nothing but the gentle wind of Elrond's breath against his hair. A silent cry erupted in his throat, at the barest hint of a brush of lips against his hair. His leggings suddenly becoming uncomfortably tight, Legolas shifted uneasily, accidentally -- or not -- pressing back and completing the contact between their bodies. He worried for a moment that Elrond would pull away, but that did not happen. It was then that he knew with certainty that his desires were not in vain -- he could feel the reciprocity of the other's arousal awakening against the back of his leggings.

Daring further familiarity, he cocked his head more to the right and plainly rested his temple against the firm arm veiled beneath the sleeve. It was then that perfection completed the moment for him. The stars above, the soft sound of Elrond's obviously louder breath in his ear, the heat of passion arising in his cheeks, this time without guilt or shame. His heart sang with joy, so it was natural that likewise did his tongue, a melody brought to his mind by the sight of the brilliant warrior of the sky.

"His sword was long, his lance was keen, his shining helm afar was seen;  
the countless stars of heaven's field  
were mirrored in his silver shield."

The desirous body stiffened behind him, but not in a way he had intended. The arm lowered, pulled back, and before Legolas understood what was happening, Elrond was gone from his senses. He whipped around, his eyes filled with loss and utter bewilderment.

Elrond stood stone-faced, but his eyes told a tale of endless agony and startling shame. In a pain drenched whisper he completed Legolas' innocent stanza.

"But long ago he rode away,  
and where he dwelleth none can say;  
for into darkness fell his star  
in Mordor where the shadows are."

He paused for a lingering moment, his eyes piercing into Legolas' very heart, then sharply turned to leave, apparently for the privacy of his own rooms, his robes fluttering behind him like the released sails of a ship.

Legolas was left alone in the night, stunned and devastated in his complete innocence of his crime. <<What have I done? What did I do wrong? Elbereth, help me! How did I offend him?>>

Part 7:

Elrond enjoyed no dreams that night, only a tortuous cacophony of guilt-laden memories replaying in his head. Legolas had been so utterly sweet, so very innocent, so very, very desirable, as he sang in his obvious joy at what was obviously about to occur. For in another moment, if the song had been any other than _that_ , Elrond would have spun the prince around into his arms and silenced that sweet tongue with the taste his own. <<Why did he choose that one? Why?>>

Why had he reacted so violently to the completely naive reference to the lost Noldorin King? Surely Legolas meant nothing by it. The child certainly had no knowledge of the sorrow that song would bring. Elrond had acted on reflex, an action without thought. It had filled him with regret, uncertainty, embarrassment for the duration of the night. Surely it was not the ghost of Gil-galad which still haunted him? He had passed into places unseen, far beyond Middle-earth, more than twenty centuries before. They might meet again, one day, in the Blessed West, and if so, what would Gil-galad say about Elrond's current predicament?

<<He would probably use the flat of his sword blade against my head, and knock some reason into it.>> Somehow, that was a comforting thought, in the most peculiar of ways. Sighing at the errant beam of orange-hued dawn piercing through his window, Elrond roused himself from his sheets, determined to put right what he had so badly ruined the hours before. <<I only pray it is not too late.>> Throwing on his robes, he left the diadem resting on his dressing table. Perhaps its absence would help him appear more... approachable, more sincere.

Fastening the layers of fabric around himself as he strode, Elrond rushed into his sitting room and stopped in his tracks. There, fidgeting nervously next to the doorway, stood the very vision he was determined to seek out. "Legolas," he murmured with a slight smile. But the expression soon fell into a joyless scowl as he noted the young prince was dressed for the road.

"I did not wish to leave without thanking you for your kindness," Legolas guiltily offered, his eyes obviously focused somewhere other than Elrond's face.

The Lord of Rivendell recovered his composure, straightening his posture into the stiffness of his office. "You are taking your leave of our hospitality so soon?"

Legolas still avoided his gaze. "It is time, Lord Elrond. My companions wish to return to Mirkwood. They are not... comfortable... here." He paused, then dared a direct stare into the elder elf's face.

Elrond pursed his lips and nodded slowly, turning away from those soul piercing eyes before they caught the disappointment he knew to be in his own expression. He suspected the prince was lying, but he dared not think too hard of what the truth might actually be. "You are, of course, welcome to return whenever you wish. There is still an entire library of books waiting to be devoured by your eyes."

A smile twitched on Legolas' face, the devilish twinkle in his eye sparkling like the morning dew upon athelas. "I will be back for them," he promised in a lyrical tone.

Closing his eyes, Elrond relished the lingering echo of the silvery voice in his ears. "Then I look forward to your next visit, Legolas, son of Thranduil." He turned back to face the prince, confident he had steeled himself for whatever was to come.

That heart stopping smile graced the prince's face once more. "Which I hope will not be too far distant." He paused uneasily, waiting for a response from Elrond which did not come. Bouncing on the balls of his feet like a sprinter preparing for a race, he finally explained, "I... I must go. They are eager to return home."

Amused by Legolas' apparent indecision, Elrond found himself smiling slightly. "I fully understand." <<I now know why one would desire to be in Mirkwood -- and it is not for the forest itself.>> He dared catch the other's eyes, and lingered in that pale sapphire gaze, desperately rueing his hasty reaction of the night before. But, despite it all, hope still remained, overflowing in that angelic face. For the briefest of moments, he pondered tasting those beckoning lips. Instead, he reached out a hesitant hand and tenderly laced a delicate golden braid back behind the ear from which it had somehow become untucked in the prince's haste. How he longed to linger in the touch, caress the spun gold with clutching fingers. Yet it was not fair to further confuse Legolas when he, himself, was still not certain of his own heart. "Do not forget the stars of Imladris, Legolas," he softly teased, hoping the words would convey vastly more meaning.

Legolas held his intent gaze, losing himself in the depth for a moment. "I will forget nothing of Imladris, I swear."

Afraid of doing something he would regret, Elrond turned around, making as if to return to his quarters. "May Elbereth smile upon you, until your return." He paused, closing his eyes as he eventually heard the barely perceptible flutter of elven footsteps retreating down his stairs. <<"May she shine upon us both, when you do.>>

The End

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I was kinder to Celebrian than she deserves . The only child of Galadriel and Celeborn, she and Elrond married a century after the Last Alliance (near the beginning of the Third Age). I'm convinced it was more of a political alliance than a marriage . They had three children, twin sons Elladan and Elrohir, and a daughter, Arwen. To each fell a choice -- when their father, Elrond Half-Elven, chose to finally sail to the west and leave Middle-earth, they would each either leave with him and remain of the Elvish race, or remain in Middle-earth and become mortal. To avoid being skewered by those who haven't read all three books, I'll not divulge the children's decisions.
> 
> In 2509 of the Third Age (about 500 years before the War of the Ring), Celebrian was traveling between Rivendell and Lorien (visiting Mom and Dad) when she was ambushed by orcs, carried off and tortured. She was rescued by her sons, and Elrond healed her poisoned wound, but according to Appendix A of "Return of the King," "though healed in body by Elrond, lost all delight in Middle-earth, and the next year went to the Havens and passed over the sea." Interesting how Frodo could find plenty of delight in Middle-earth after his Nazgul inflicted wound (far more potent than an orc wound), yet Celebrian could not.
> 
> After their mother's departure, her dutiful sons were rather obsessive about exacting their continuing revenge on orcs. They sometimes traveled with the Dunedain in orc hunting parties. Talk about a dysfunctional family!
> 
> 2) Tolkien included a lot of astronomical lore in his books. After all, the Eldar are, by definition, "The People of the Stars." The stars were supposedly placed in the sky by Varda (Elbereth) in preparation for the Elves' awakening. I have used the proper Sindarin names for most of the stars and constellations in this story, with the following caveats:
> 
> Cassiopeia, named Wilwarin (butterfly) in Quenya, I renamed Gwilwileth (the Sildarin equivalent)
> 
> Capella, the brightest star in Auriga, is not named in Tolkien's work. I named it Malthenel, "Golden star."
> 
> Virgo does not appear in Tolkien's work. It does look somewhat like a ship, the way I have described it. The Sindarin "Meduicair" translates as "Last ship."
> 
> For more information on astronomical objects in Tolkien's work, see http://www.forodrim.org/daeron/md_astro.html . I agree with the identification of Borgil with Aldebaran, not Betelgeuse. If all this astronomical stuff is a tad heavy handed, just nod politely and indulge a poor geeky astronomy professor . For those of you who want the punchlines,
> 
> Earendil = Venus  
> Alcarinque = Jupiter  
> Ithil = Moon  
> Helluin = Sirius  
> Edegil = Big Dipper  
> Menelvagor = Orion  
> Remmirath = Pleiades
> 
> 3) For the Hymn to Elbereth, see http://tolkien.cro.net/talesong/elbereth.html
> 
> 4) There seems to be this mistaken (in my mind) idea floating around the fandom that Legolas is 3000 years old. There is nothing obvious in canon to support that (off handed comments by actors aside), and plenty to support the idea that he is relatively young. For more information, see Martinez (March 31, 2000). In keeping with what I consider a sound defense of the "youth" theory, I have placed him at @500 years old at the time of the Ring War.
> 
> 5) If you did not get the reference, poor Legolas sang part of The Fall of Gil-galad to Elrond. Not a wise choice -- snerk.
> 
> References:
> 
> Robert Foster (1978) The Complete Guide to Middle Earth (NY: Ballantine Books)
> 
> J.E.A. Tyler (1976) The Tolkien Companion (NY: Gramercy Books)
> 
> Michael Martinez (March 31, 2000) Speaking of Legolas... (http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/36517)
> 
> Per Lindberg, Astronomical Objects in Middle-earth (http://www.forodrim.org/daeron/md_astro.html)
> 
> The Sindarin Dictionary Project (http://www.geocities.com/almacq.geo/sindar/)


End file.
